


Feferi: move mountains.

by Laylah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sgrub Session, Black Romance, F/M, Fight Sex, Inflation, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 09:52:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3973663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He leers. "Princess."</p><p>Your spine stiffens. "It's Empress now."</p><p>"Is that the motherfucking truth," he says coolly. "You takin' up everything my fine fin-sister had?"</p><p>He levers himself up out of his throne, and up, and up, and your fins flare out defensively but you stand your ground. He's <i>huge</i>, a towering hulk of corded muscle and bone trophies and wild hair. But you grew up with Gl'bgolyb. It takes more than sheer size to intimidate you.</p><p>"Everyfin worth having," you retort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feferi: move mountains.

**Author's Note:**

> I have seriously wanted to write you this for months. Your prompts were so utterly glorious, every single one of them. And here it is! Just in time for this year's season to start.

You stand at the entrance to the tent, your fork in hand. This can't be as difficult as facing your Ancestor. You're nearly certain of this, but you're hesitating all the same.

The thing about an empire, even one held in as tight a jeweled fist as your predecessor's, is that it requires support. Eridan used to lecture you on that, on all the ways you would need to convert, suborn, and take possession of the highblood factions that supported the Condesce's rule. If it were up to you, you would upend the entire empire, toss all of them out of their seats of power in one exuberant rush. 

But it doesn't work that way, no matter how much you wish it did. Dismantling what she built over thousands of sweeps won't be the jaunt of a perigee or two. Careful political promises have secured the loyalty of the other seadwellers, even if only temporarily. The Threshecutioner corps adored you from the moment you first addressed them, with blood still dripping from your fins. But now you need to deal with the Subjugglators. They're unpredictable, wildcard allies at best, and you know your Ancestor adored them for that; there are rumors that she was quadranted to their leader.

You defeated her. You can bring him to heel.

You push back the flap of the tent and step inside. It smells of greasepaint, smoke, old blood. Torches burn around the corners, sick sopor green, and you don't want to know what they've lit on fire to produce that color. Your... target? adversary? would-be ally? sprawls on a throne that appears to be built of lashed-together bones, watching you approach.

"Highblood," you say—it's such an awful title—and do something with your mouth that's smile-ish.

He leers. "Princess."

Your spine stiffens. "It's Empress now."

"Is that the motherfucking truth," he says coolly. "You takin' up everything my fine fin-sister had?"

He levers himself up out of his throne, and up, and up, and your fins flare out defensively but you stand your ground. He's _huge_ , a towering hulk of corded muscle and bone trophies and wild hair. But you grew up with Gl'bgolyb. It takes more than sheer size to intimidate you.

"Everyfin worth having," you retort.

The Grand Highblood throws back his head and laughs, green light playing off his fangs. "A brother could get to like you, little girl," he says. "Let's dance."

He lunges for you, a flex of monstrous shoulders and a low rippling growl that drills right into your horns. You dart out of his way, flicking your fork to catch one arm as he goes by. He lands hard, turns, smacks your fork so hard it goes flying out of your hands.

"Don't you BRING that MOTHERFUCKING NOISE in here, princess," he snarls. 

He hasn't equipped a weapon. Your hands sting and your bloodpusher thunders in your chest and you leap _toward_ him instead of away. You cock your fist back for a punch and he holds still, like he doesn't believe your daring, like he's giving you a free hit. You suddenly hate him so much you can taste it, and when your punch lands—right in his smug mouth!—you push a little extra Life into it and his head snaps back and it's _wonderful_.

His smile looks better with blood dripping from it. He swipes at you—he's so fast!—and sends you tumbling across the floor of the tent. You roll to your feet, bounce once, launch yourself at him again.

"Look at you, sweet thing," he says, those low, wavering harmonics that make most trolls cower. "You got the globes to try it, huh?" His broad paw catches you across the face and you taste blood. 

You glare, hot fury in your throat, your claws itching for his skin.

He _moans_ , low and still edged with a growl. "Bring that sweet stuff over here where I can feel it some other place than just my motherfucking thinkpan, honeygrub."

"It's—" _platonic_ , you mean to say. Except it isn't, is it? You want to split him open and crawl right up inside his ribcage where you can take raw, savage bites out of his heart. You want to engulf his bulge so you can strangle it, so you can crush it inside you. You want him wrecked—but still fighting.

" _There's_ the righteous motherfucking music," he purrs. Everything about him is a challenge, the challenge you've never found in a troll your own age. You stalk toward him, fangs bared and claws ready. He cocks his horns back, away from you instead of toward, and you know (because this, too, was a thing Eridan wanted to be sure you understood) that it's an old-fashioned, courtly insult. You're not dangerous enough to threaten with ready horns.

You stop. You don't capture whales, kill empresses, or conquer empires by letting them set all the terms of the battle. Breathing deeply won't clear your head in here, not with the haze of smoke on the air, but you take stock, disciplining your impulses as best you can. 

"Finally got your fear on?" he asks, but you're still staring at his horns, and feeling the click of recognition.

"Wondering if you're ever going to stop begging me to give you things, Makara," you say sweetly.

The smothering pressure on your mind that you'd almost managed to ignore falters. "That name's ancient motherfucking history."

"Don't be so shore," you say. "I might have anotter one to replaice you if you're not safishfactory."

The growl he gives you then is deep and resonant enough to rattle walls. Your body sings with delight. His emotional assault surges back over you, waves of hate and desire that echo the feelings you call your own. You show him your teeth. He paces toward you, slow and measured, until he's close enough to really _loom_. If you reach up you can just reach the ends of his shaggy mane of hair.

So you do. You grab hold and pull, and when he refuses to bend down you pull yourself _up_ , until you can get another fistful on the other side. You climb him, your growl harmonizing with his, your feet planted against his thighs where you can feel the hard cords of muscle. When you're level with his face, holding yourself there with the flex of your arms, he wraps his huge hands around your waist and leers. You bite his lip, and the taste of his blood is even better than the sight of it. He tilts his head just a little and then you're kissing, which still involves teeth more than anything.

 _Tiny little thing, ain't you._ His voice resonates in your head, his eyes glowing like the lure of some abyssal creature. _Sure you can HANDLE WHAT YOU'RE GRABBING?_

You snort in derision and kick him in the ribs. You're not sure how clearly he can hear you, whether he actually catches your thoughts or just the feelings that go with them. Either way you hope you're completely aggravating, because you're not scared at all now that it's flirting: you're --EXCIT----ED.

The claws of one massive hand skate down your thigh, then back up under the hem of your wrap to catch the edge of your swimsuit. Should you be nervous? He wants you to be nervous. Hah. You hook your toes into the waistband of his pants and try to drag them down. He tears the fabric of your suit. You let go of his hair and launch yourself up into a backflip, which probably gives him a glance at your junk but definitely gives you a chance to catch him across the jaw with one foot.

"Ready whenebber you are," you say as you land.

He palms the front of his pants as if he's reaching for a weapon. Your nook throbs. You'd been ready to fight him to get it the way you want it, but it looks like he's going to just give it to you. "Lemme hear you ask nice."

You take a step. "Take your pants off." He raises an eyebrow, grinning, and before he can say something else obnoxious you step closer, reach out, and _shove_ , both hands together in the center of his chest. He stumbles, barely a second before he's balanced again, but even that much is a triumph and you know it. "Empresses ask any way they want to."

"And you just might be one of those someday," he says. You are going to _wreck_ him.

He steps back and seats himself on his awful throne again, pulling down his stupid pants just enough to free his bulge. You stalk toward him, your limbs thrumming with tension and your nook hungry. 

His bulge is just as monstrously proportioned as the rest of him. It squirms in his lap as you scale him, and you flat refuse to be intimidated. You straddle his lap and reach up, grabbing the bases of his horns. "Mine," you hiss. His bulge coils against your thigh. " _My_ general. _My_ attackbeast. And by the time I walk out of here you'll know it."

"If you can walk out of here when I'm done with you, _that_ would get you my motherfucking respect."

"Try me," you say, and you wish you'd been more clever but you're impatient and he's awful and you're so wet when the first handspan of his bulge pushes up into you. He's closer to your temperature than anyone else you've pailed, and that's almost as much of an adjustment as his size.

No, you take that back as he keeps pushing, as he slides deeper and you stretch around his thickness. Temperature is nothing. He's monstrous, filling your nook so completely that you can feel it all the way to your raised hackles, soft tissues expanding more than they've ever needed to before. Your breath comes in shallow gasps, your opercula flexing uselessly in the air. His bulge twists, and you grunt, your claws digging into his hornbeds.

His teeth skin back from his lips in a furious snarl that he tries too late to turn into a leer. "Found your limit already, baby gill?"

"Don't you wish," you say, your voice as sweetly condescending as you can make it. "Is that all you have to offer? Ooh, Highblood, it's so _big_?" Your nerves are on fire, your bulge lashing untouched against your belly. He's pushing against the root of it from inside you, forcing it out of your sheath as far as it can possibly go. The skin of your belly tingles.

"The better to SPLIT AN OVERCONFIDENT LITTLE BITCH in half," he says, thrashing in your confines. It has to be a struggle for him to move.

"If I run into one," you pant, "eel be sure to warn her." You push yourself down harder, flexing muscles you're unused to needing, and you get your glutes planted firmly against his thighs at last. There are streaks in his makeup where sweat is making it run, and every one of them is a badge of victory.

He splays one huge hand across your stomach, and your skin shivers all over. "Pretty little motherfucking monster," he croons, stroking your distended abdomen. "You might just be tough enough to make a decent empress."

"That was never up to your bulge," you remind him, "but I'm glad it likes its new owner."

"Bold, little grub, all up and laying ownership to a—" You squeeze, hard, and the words turn into a growl. His mind batters at yours, as hungry and aggressive as his bulge, and you hold on tight to both like you could wrestle him to the ground. When you look down you can see him writhing under your skin as if he's looking for an escape, and you thrill with the refusal to give him one.

He lunges for your mouth, biting as much as kissing, and you sink your teeth into his lower lip. His blood is delicious. He's stopped even trying to make you afraid, and the only thing you feel from his power is how much he wants you. That's nearly as much of a rush as the pulsing fullness blossoming upward from your nook and through your entire core. The size isn't the only thing he has to offer after all, and now that he's taking you seriously it feels incredible. His bulge squirms, doubled and coiled back on itself, rubbing your stretched walls and pressing against your globes.

You can't tell if it's the hazy air, the lingering chucklevoodoos, or if he really is that good (you'll never tell him), but you're coming undone, pleasure trickling through your nerves and then picking up speed, flowing, rushing through you. You've caught him. He's _yours_. You ripple and squeeze and engulf him because he's a monster but you _devour_ monsters, and even the ache of taking him makes your blood sing.

You hit your peak like the crest of a wave, curling into a crash that roars in your ears and shakes through your limbs and you're not releasing material anywhere because it can't get past his bulge. You howl, clenching down around him and crushing his oversized bulge as you thrash. He's cursing both out loud and in your head, furious and desperate. You're hurting him and he can't even pull out, and he's got nothing up his nook so he needs the chemicals in your slurry to set him off. 

You ride it out with your claws sunk into his skin, waves breaking one after another as he keeps moving. His body ratchets up tense underneath you and then snaps rigid, his hands bruising your hips and the violent relief of his climax coursing through your mind.

Both of you have to take a minute then to just catch your breath, and you're glaring at each other but there's no heat in it now. That was _glorious_ , every bit as fierce and furious and thrilling as romances made it sound like it should be.

His bulge withdraws slowly, retracting back into him and leaving enough room for yours to do the same. Your slurry follows, leaving a gross mess all over his lap, and he groans like that feels just as good as the actual sex. He leers at you. "Not just any motherfucker gets to say he's been an empress's pail."

You beam. "That is the sweetest thing an oversized ugly clown has ever said to me."

He laughs, long and loud, and you could really get to like having someone enjoy it this much when you're mean.

"I'm holding court tomorrow, Makara," you tell him when his mirth recedes enough for him to meet your eyes again. "I expect you to be there."

He grins. "If I don't, you gonna make me saury?"

Ooh, you hate him. "You're a saury motherfucker without me doing anyfin," you say. You climb out of his lap (he swats your glutes and you refuse to acknowledge it), straighten your skirt, and go to collect your fork from the corner it got lost in. You very carefully don't think at all about how sore you are or how much you want a good soak in the slime to ease your aches. You're so sticky it's _unbereefable_.

"I'll be there, little sister," he says at last. "Wouldn't want no other salty motherfucker angling for this kind of argument out of you."

"Good." You straighten up, raise your fork to him in salute. "Don't be late."

You put a little saunter in your step because you won and goddamnit you _can_ , sore or not, and his laughter follows you out of the tent.

**Author's Note:**

> Did you know there is a deep sea fish called the black swallower that has a tremendously flexible stomach & abdomen, allowing it to consume prey over ten times its mass? 
> 
> Now you do.


End file.
